Dancers
by Ethir Anduin
Summary: The heirs to Rohan and Gondor face the difficulties of growing up. Features Elessar (Aragorn), Arwen, Faramir, Eowyn, Eomer, Lothiriel and their children


"You must have seen her/Dancing in the sand..." --Elton John, Tiny Dancer  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

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_Lalorniel  
  
I admire my brother for many reasons. I admire his quick wit, though he applies this not to humour but to politics. I admire his physical abilities, also. If Gondor rides to war, and my brother leads the men, Gondor will not fall. My brother has the strength and the heart of a lion. His heart, sometimes, I think he uses wrongly, for often he hides great sorrows from us all. He refuses to speak of these sorrows, and I let him be, because I know he would order me to do so if he were not so softhearted towards family. But he's strong. He can hide his sorrows; he could hold all the sorrows of the world on his shoulders and not succumb to the pressure.  
  
But when I truly see my brother, he's laughing. Eldarion has a wonderful sense of humour. He hides it, but it's there. If you ever see him laugh, you'll understand. Most never see Eldarion's laugh. He's beautiful, when he's laughing. He closes his eyes and laughs open-mouthed, sometimes shaking and covering his mouth with his hands. He looks so happy! When Eldarion laughs, it's the most beautiful thing in the world._  
  
Eldarion gulped as searing pains shot through his foot. He felt his eyes growing wide and quickly blinked, afraid a bit of dust might settle in his eye and, should any drop of water flush away that dust, Eldarion would cry buckets: he would not be able to stop the tears once they began to flow. He shivered involuntarily and, forcing himself to take deep, calm breaths, shoved against the mare's flank. She eyed him with vague disinterest. The prince asserted himself more firmly, pushing with all the strength he could muster. The mare still seemed not to care (after all, Eldarion was small for his age and hardly weighed over elven stone) but she decided she might as well do as he asked and be rid of the pest.  
  
Breathing proved quite difficult for Eldarion as, with the horse's foot removed from his, the pain flew full-fledged through his body. He wanted to shout out a curse, collapse to the ground and sob like a baby. He contented himself to take a few shuddering breaths before beginning a slow trek to the bench just outside of the stable. He watched the ground, forcing himself to put one foot before the other and not cry out when he rested his weight on the injured foot. 'Please just let me keep all of my toes,' he prayed, unsure of to whom.  
  
When at last he sat, Eldarion slouched. Chuckling at himself, he shook his head. 'If my father saw me now...' Damned be posture, though, after over an hour of riding and a possibly broken foot.  
  
Waiting until his heart slowed and his breath came easily, the prince simply sat, feeling blood pulse through his veins. At last he doubled over, unlaced his boot and pulled his foot free. Grimacing, he began to roll down his sock. Sweat made fabric cling to flesh.  
  
"Ah!" Eldarion found his foot rather a repulsive sight. Brittle flakes of skin half-attached to the body rose; small amounts of blood welled. Strange dark points dotted his toes. He forced himself not to look away--until he heard voices.  
  
"Eldarion! How is it with you, Prince of Gondor?"  
  
Eldarion acted quickly and foolishly. To hide his injury, he tucked his foot beneath him. Though limber enough to do so without pain to his leg, the weight upon his abused foot caused him to wince. He smiled falsely as a strong hand mussed his hair playfully. "I am well, Uncle, and you?" he replied. Eldarion spoke to no blood relation, but to one he called 'uncle' nevertheless.  
  
"Jolly," answered Eomer, his voice bland, bored and sarcastic, yet somehow jolly at the same moment. He leaned against the bench but did not sit.  
  
"Elboron says hello," Faramir added. He sat beside Eldarion, who flinched. For a time none could think of anything to say. After a moment of searching Eldarion's face, Faramir said, "What's wrong?"  
  
"Just preoccupied is all," Eldarion lied. Faramir eyed the boot and sock on the ground and would have commented, but Eomer punched Faramir lightly on the shoulder.  
  
_Lalorniel  
  
The trouble with Eldarion is, he cries like he laughs: with all his heart. He laughs in public, but he never cries in public. He allows no one to see him cry--not me, not even our parents. Perhaps this is an affectation of his pride but I think more a fear. Eldarion fears failure. He fears showing any slight weakness to anyone, but especially to his father. I say "his" and not "our" because, truth to be told, Eldarion's world is different from mine. Boys and girls have different worlds. This is difficult to accept, but true.  
  
I saw him crying the other day. He was quiet and calm, but crying. This is Eldarion's pain-cry. When in pain, he finds a private nook and sheds a few tears, then swiftly wishes the hurt away. I wish he would allow someone to comfort him, but that is not his way. I do what I can to ease his pain._  
  
"Elboron!"  
  
Lalorniel, whose low self-esteem led to a dislike of long, flowery names and thus the nickname of Pinkie. This shorter name had two tales to tell. The first embarrassed Pinkie, but she remembered her bravery and the tears she never cried, and the absolutely incredible bruising and scars. When she and Eldarion were small, at the time inseparable, some tomfool attempted to teach them one of the most preposterous games in the world--tennis. Gentle- natured Eldarion took quickly to the sport, but his more headstrong sister constantly smacked the ball too hard and delighted in running after it. That is, until the day she caught her pinkie finger with the racket and wrenched it out of its socket.  
  
The second reason for the nickname was her constant sunburn, turning her skin bright pink.  
  
Being only a year younger than Eldarion, Pinkie developed quite a close relationship with her brother. As children they went everywhere together. Their looks were identical, black-haired and grey-eyed. They even hit growth spurts together, Pinkie beside Eldarion, tall for a woman. Then her breasts began to grow, and their relationship was deemed unhealthy. Pinkie faded to the shadows, the only place she belonged without her brother.  
  
Eleven-year-old Elboron paused. By force of habit he flinched at the sound of his name, expecting a rebuke. Seeing Pinkie, two years his senior and his best friend, he sighed with relief. "Don't s-scare me like that!" he hissed.  
  
"If you look for it, you'll find it. Papa always tells me that, and someone ought to tell you," Pinkie whispered.  
  
It was true; Elboron did look for his parents' rebukes. Though the Prince and Princess of Ithilien loved their son quite possibly more than life itself, his habits of apparel often worried them. A young prince, they insisted, should not scavenge clothing from the garbage. Elboron liked his old clothing. He hated going behind his parents' backs, but...once he had sweated into something, he felt as though he truly belonged to it. New clothes never fit. Just as things began to fit, he "outgrew" them, or they were too "tatty." He hated the fights often begun over this, he went silent for days when his parents fought, but...Elboron knew what his heart sang. Simply because he could not voice the words, did not mean he could not feel them.  
  
"I'm sorry," Pinkie said. "Elboron, will you wrestle with me?" she asked.  
  
He blinked. "Wh-why?" Pinkie wrestled well, she managed well with most weaponry and especially her body, though this worried her parents. She nodded. Elboron sneaked a look round the low wall and saw Eomer and Faramir talking with Eldarion. "They'd tell your papa," he warned Pinkie.  
  
She frowned, and a sadness came upon her which she quickly shook away. "I don't mind," she said. "Your papa would probably be happy you weren't being so finicky." It was true; Elboron usually hated dirtying his hands and had no skill with the arts of war. "You will win," Pinkie added, sealing the deal.  
  
_Lalorniel  
  
Elboron is...nice. Usually people say "nice" when they haven't another word, but Elboron truly is. He's kind. He tries so hard to please his mamma and papa; he's a good and loyal friend; he stands behind his morals. He's strong. Mentally, this Prince of Ithilien is perfect.  
  
He stammers and hasn't the faintest sense of coordination. I think he may be ashamed of this, and his shame causes his stammer. Imagine being a son of two great heroes and not being able to parry the blows of a princess. I know something, though, that Eowyn and Faramir do not know. Elboron made me swear not to tell. He dances like something celestial. I don't care who says that the dark-haired, hunched-over, clumsy boy is ugly. He's beautiful. He has a squashed nose which ill becomes him, but he's beautiful. Anyone who cannot see that isn't half worth his time._  
  
When the shouts reached his ears, Eldarion was almost glad for the distraction. Then he realized what was going on. "Lorn..."  
  
"Elfwine," Eomer said. Elfwine and Lalorniel did have a history of fighting. They called it loving hate. Their families jokingly refered to it as repeated assassination attempts.  
  
Faramir shook his head. "That's...Ai, Elbereth!" He leapt to his feet and positively sped to the scrapping youths, followed by Eldarion at an odd lope being supported by Eomer. "Elboron!"  
  
Momentum gained, Pinkie and Elboron were setting into each other. Or, so it appeared. In truth they were grappling, rolling in the mud. Pinkie had given Elboron a bloody nose and herself a black eye. For sound effects they grunted and occasionally shouted out an insult. Timing was crucial for this: Elboron earned a mouthful of mud by shouting too late.  
  
"Lorn!"  
  
"Elboron!"  
  
Faramir pulled his off of the eldest Princess of Gondor as Eomer, standing for an injured Eldarion, restrained a struggling Pinkie. After a meaningful look from his friend, Elboron put up a show of fighting against his father's hold.  
  
"Elboron, stop that!"  
  
"Stay yourself, Lalorniel."  
  
She spat mud on the ground. "M'name's Pinkie."  
  
Eldarion shot his sister a look few could read and she fell silent, speaking as best she could with her eyes--I did this only for you.  
  
The elder shook his head slightly, and gestured subtly with his hands: You must not fight my battles!  
  
Do not treat me like a child!  
  
You are behaving like one.  
  
Eomer and Faramir exchanged a look. Eomer glanced at the Prince of Gondor, his face white, and at the girl still struggling half-heartedly. With a nod Eomer said, "I'll take these two to Aragorn, then."  
  
_Lalorniel  
  
It isn't that I don't love my father. I do. I just hate to see him. The only times I do see him I've done something awful. Once when I was small I asked Mama if Papa loved us at all. "Of course he does, child," she said, but not as though she was surprised, "but Papa cannot always be here with us because he has a country to look after."  
  
"So...my papa is Gondor's papa?"  
  
She laughed, but not in mocking. "You might say that, yes."  
  
"So...is Gondor my sister or my brother?"_  
  
"Pinkie..."  
  
She bit her lip on the comment that "wormy" might be more appropriate at the time.  
  
Elessar shook his head and rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Minas Tirith and Ithilien are parts of one country, Lalorniel, and splitting alliances-- "  
  
"It's not like that!" Pinkie interjected, earning her a stern look from her father. Examining her fingers, she muttered, "It isn't like that, Papa."  
  
"This is not the time for talking back. When I wish to hear your story I will ask for it." He held up a hand before she could speak. "Elboron is a little boy, Lalorniel, much smaller than you. Even were he not, yours is not a station which allows violence as a solution to every problem. Something common among stable hands and kitchen boys cannot be common among princes and princesses. You are nobility, of a different class. The standards of behaviour applied to the aforementioned do not apply to you." He looked into her eyes, impatient and rebellious. "You do not even think you have done anything wrong."  
  
"It was just a bit of fun," she mumbled.  
  
"Pulverizing your cousin--"  
  
Pinkie protested this, "No one was pulverized, Papa! We only played a bit!" Pinkie kept her tongue and temper around most. Only around her father, whose affection she starved for want of, did Pinkie become a thing of rages and passions. She hated it, but she didn't stop. At least this way he saw her. At least this way she wasn't just a shadow.  
  
"Playing is not soaking high-ranking officials in mud--"  
  
"He consented! Elboron agreed to it!"  
  
"What does Elboron know? He's a child, same as you! Any fool can see that he dislikes fighting, and you ask me to believe--" Elessar realized that his temper was unchecked. He had fallen into Lalorniel's trap and raised his voice to her. Often he wondered, does she wish for me to hate her? If she did mean this, Lalorniel failed. Elessar did shout a bit, but he loved her nevertheless. Then, controlling himself, "It is bad enough that you would instigate a fight with the son of the Prince of Ithilien, but that you would lie to me, your father and your king...I can only hope that you are too much of a child to understand the severity of this."  
  
Lalorniel knew that, having incited the argument, she had no right to be upset by it. Yet when she told the truth and was accused of lying, and by someone she loved very much, defensive anger flared. Choosing a safer point to contest, one less likely to show her pain, she answered back, "We aren't children, Papa, and we are not stupid! We have ears and eyes and hearts and mouths and we use them same as you!" She felt bile rising in her throat and finished, "May I be excused? I need to be sick."  
  
Believing her this time, Elessar nodded. The last time Lalorniel said she needed to be sick, the retched for nearly seven hours. "Go, but once you have finished and when you have washed--"  
  
"I know," she said. "I will wait; we will finish this conversation."  
  
But they wouldn't, and she knew. Pinkie knew she would finish the conversation with her mother or possibly one of the uncles. Probably her mother, although Eomer would offer a few words. He deserved to, Pinkie thought, having hauled her out of the mud.  
  
In all the commotion, no one noticed Eldarion's limp. As Pinkie washed the mud from her hair she shed silent tears and thanked Elbereth that her distraction sufficed. She held herself and rocked. "You did the right thing," she whispered, again and again. "You have to believe that you did the right thing."  
  
Meanwhile and not terribly far away, Faramir asked his son, "What happened, Elboron?" The boy hardly had a temper. Fighting...it was simply out of character! "Losing your head to Lalorniel--aggravating though she may be-- is much unlike you."  
  
Elboron cast his gaze to the floor. "We were playing," he mumbled.  
  
"Look at me, Elboron. Answer truthfully."  
  
Elboron met his father's eyes, then quickly looked away. "We were playing," he repeated.  
  
Faramir sighed. His son rarely proved so recalcitrant or disobedient; save for the clothing habit and the occasional mishap, Elboron hadn't a mischievous or ill-meaning bone in his body. He kept his temper and worked hard at his studies. Sometimes, when Elboron did lash out (and on limited occasion he did), if it was not healthy for him. Being an only child, Elboron had no sisters or brothers to fight with. He never fought with his parents or with his tutor, never fought with anyone, really. Faramir thought of his own childhood and decided that perhaps a boy needs to fight.  
  
"Elboron, are you certain that is true?" Faramir asked. Elboron, who held a cloth beneath his slowly bleeding nose, said nothing. "Elboron..."  
  
Elboron felt his face flush with heat under his father's scrutiny. He focused on the floor, but could not block the image of his father from his mind. "I didn't want to disappoint you," he admitted at last. "I want to fight, like the others do. Elfwine and Eldarion fight, sparring and things, and they are both quite good, and they...and so when Pinkie--uh, that's what Lalorniel prefers to be called--when she asked me to wrestle with her..."  
  
Faramir raised an eyebrow. "She asked you to wrestle with her?" Had Elboron known any swear words, he would have used them.  
  
Not long after that, Faramir bowed, straightened, and requested permission to speak bluntly. "Please do--this matter would be much simpler if we were friends, not politicians." At that Faramir smiled weakly. Elessar grimaced. "I realize how terrible a joke that was."  
  
"Frankly, Elessar, I think you should know that Lalorniel and Elboron meant to fight. They were playing--this sounds silly of an effeminate boy and a girl, I know this, but Elboron has informed that while Lalorniel suggested a wrestling match, he willingly joined in."  
  
Elessar's heart sank.  
  
_Lalorniel  
  
I can say little of Mama but that she is the oldest, wisest, most beautiful woman in the world. It is my role to say this, as her daughter, but I truly mean it. I always trust Mama with any problem I have. Eldarion does, too. Even Lady Eowyn confides in Mama. Most importantly, Papa confides in her. He may rule Gondor, but she is the pillar supporting him. He calls her Elder Sister, muinthel-iaur, when he thinks Eldarion and I are out of hearing._  
  
Arwen Evenstar found her husband staring vacantly at empty air, lying on their bed with his eyes wide open yet completely shut to the world. She sat behind him and caressed his head as she spoke, her way of calming him and knowing that he listened. "She loves you, Estel. Lalorniel is spirited, but she is pure."  
  
"I have been too harsh with her. I should not have shouted. She...she was not lying to me. Elboron cannot land a punch on that girl."  
  
"What will you do?" Arwen asked. She had a way of agreeing without agree, prodding without prodding. Elessar saw an untold story in her eyes, but did not ask for it. Arwen had her reasons for secrets.  
  
"How do you teach the winds to blow?"  
  
"With gentle nudges," Arwen replied. "First you must admit that the winds are beyond your command."  
  
This bothered Elessar, the metaphor taken too far. "I can control my own children."  
  
Arwen raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? You could, but at the moment you cannot. Lalorniel does not obey you and Eldarion fears that his slightest failure will disappoint you. Only Laurelinde--" she named their youngest child, a girl of eight years "--seems not to care, only to love."  
  
"I hate when you are right, Arwen."  
  
She knew it. "Rest, love. Tomorrow you must speak with Lalorniel and Eldarion. This will take strength."  
  
Elessar sighed. He knew it. "Where would I be without you, Arwen?" he asked, and he kissed her.  
  
"I dread to think."  
  
_Eldarion  
  
My sister Lalorniel is weak. She melts into shadows, holds her tongue and tells stupid jokes, but she is weak inside. I know this because I know when she cries. Whenever Lalorniel buries her head beneath the covers of her bed and cries to drown the world, I always have an itch between my shoulder blades, like someone is tickling me with a feather. I'm not psychic. I know my sister.  
  
She is truly just a baby. Oh, yes, Lalorniel is an adult and capable of behaving it. When it comes to our father, though, she is little more than a child. She wants his attention and knows only to misbehave to earn it. Father is...busy. I understand, she understands. Only Lalorniel is the more visceral of the two of us, and her heart thinks more swiftly than her head in his presence.  
_  
"Lorn."  
  
Stars like ice against an inky sky provided the only light outside. Pinkie kept open the window of her cell well into the night, often falling asleep without shutting it. She preferred the cold. Eldarion shivered as he stood above her, touching her shoulder gently.  
  
When Pinkie made no response, Eldarion drew the covers back and crawled into the bed bedside his sister, enveloping her protectively. She tucked her head beneath his chin, her hair like down feathers against his chin. "Dari," she whimpered, not afraid to be weak before her brother. "Oh, Dari."  
  
"I know, baby," he whispered. If anyone accused Lalorniel of being a "baby" her eyes would glint angrily--anyone, that is, but Eldarion. "Go ahead and cry. You'll feel better."  
  
"I want you back, Dari," she whispered.  
  
His chest hurt, and though Eldarion denied the reasons he knew them well. When his father admitted to him the truth and spoke of his childhood, Eldarion grew with Estel. They became a man. Eldarion left his sister behind. He went where she could not follow; she remained where he could not return. If hiding in shadows was her manner of coping, so be it. Pinkie knew that Eldarion loved her.  
  
"I know, baby," he whispered, "I know."

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To be continued

Reviews are always appreciated!


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